


Veil

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27425644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Erestor has a spot to map.
Relationships: Erestor/Glorfindel (Tolkien)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 52





	Veil

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion, or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Stones scatter down the hill before his feet, and Erestor’s fingers tense around the woven straps of his bag. The valley dips into a gaping basin of hills and trees, swallowed at the ends in mist, a true _mystery_ like few others still left in the world. The mountains beyond his back are familiar, _safe_ , but he stands on the edge of uncharted waters. All the maps say no more, bearing a wide, conspicuous hole, not all that far from the land Erestor lives in. But Erestor’s maps are _better_. He’s the greatest cartographer ever known, or at least, will be, because his maps show _everything_. 

He could always lie. Draw a dragon curled at the bottom of a crater and tell adventurers to take his word. No one would ever go down to check. The rumours speak for themselves, facts so swathed in myth that it’s hard to tell what horrors are true and which are just embellished nightmares. But Erestor doesn’t _lie_. He knows that whatever he inks across his canvas will be something he’s seen with his own eyes, and that means he must step forward.

It still takes him a long moment to do so. He draws in the crisp afternoon air and forces himself to move, powered more by sheer force of will than any real strength. Erestor has never been a particularly brave creature. But he is a man of conviction, determined and steadfast, _meticulous_. He’s never shied away from details before. He takes one shaking step after another down the grassy slope, making note of every gnarled trunk that rises up to greet him. By the time he’s reached the bottom, the fog’s welled up in his eyes, and it’s difficult to see anything ahead of him. He soldiers on anyway, counting trees and boulders. 

A straight line first. He’ll cut across it, hopefully reach the end by sundown if there are no wide chasms or towering cliffs to stop him, and then he will double back in the morning and begin to feel out the circle. He’ll jot down his notes and drawings by firelight after each trip. He’ll camp beyond the brim, because who knows what dangers lie inside, and Erestor has never once loosed an arrow from the bundle slung across his back. His bow is a precaution, hopefully not necessary. He hears something snap behind him and doesn’t draw the dagger at his belt, but simply turns, frozen with fear he won’t acknowledge. 

A light splits the gloom. It isn’t that of day, though the sun was high outside the mist, but a bright, yellow glow that seems to eat away the shadows. It comes closer without the clash of gnawing teeth or the boom of heavy footfalls. The figure that eventually emerges isn’t the beast Erestor expects, but a tall, muscular _man_ , not mortal but _Elven_ , or at least, it looks that way from the elegant points at the ends of his ears. His hair is pure spun gold, trailing down his broad shoulders in straight, shimmering waves, overlaying robes of azure and white. His face is angular and strong, his eyes soft: a piercing blue. He’s unabashedly _beautiful_ , and that’s enough to warn Erestor of what he’s found: a siren, perhaps a Maia but more likely a lure of his own making, a temptress straight out of dreams. Erestor’s traveled far and wide in pursuit of his craft, seen many faces, truly _known_ far less, and this is the most handsome being Erestor’s ever witnessed. His maps are mere drivel compared to the art of this gold-haired beauty, and Erestor finds himself unable to reach for any weapon.

The almost-elf strolls closer, coming ever nearer, perilous, smelling of rich herbs and earth: already too enticing. When he stops before Erestor, all else fades away. The wind eerily rustling through leaves and the mourning cry of foreign birds seems to silence, as though a soundless song is emanating from the being and engulfing all else. Erestor can’t hear it but can _feel it_. If this were an elf, he would be one of great deeds: a noble with odes and ballads prefacing all his tales. He looks at Erestor and asks in a minstrel’s voice, “What are you doing here?”

Erestor is not one to be nervous, but it takes him several seconds to devise an answer. When he speaks, he’s proud of how level his voice is. “I am Erestor, a cartographer. I mean this place no harm.”

The man tilts his head, blond strands trailing slickly over one shoulder. Those eyes are diving deep into Erestor, but they eventually let him go, instead moving slowly down his chin to his throat, along his taut chest, ever lower. Erestor stands tall under the scrutiny. When that gaze returns to his, the creature murmurs, “And I am Glorfindel, a warrior reborn, though I have never known why the Valar put me here until this very moment.”

Erestor’s brow knits together. He’s heard of elves returning, of Mandos granting second chances, but never seen one for himself, perhaps never truly believed it. Yet, somehow, looking at Glorfindel, he can think of no other explanation, because no mere elf could be so intimidating yet captivating. There’s a presence to him beyond the world Erestor knows. But Erestor can’t guess his purpose so instead ventures, “Are you the guardian of this place?”

Glorfindel glances back at a knotted tree. Whatever else lies beyond it, Erestor may never know—his eyes can’t penetrate the fog. Glorfindel seems to decide: “I suppose I am.”

It’s fortunate the guardian speaks Sindarin, rather than a raging dragon or Balrog that could not be reasoned with. Glorfindel may very well still be a trap, but Erestor is already in too deep and dares to ask, “May I have your permission to explore your land, and to record what I see?”

There’s a long silence between them. Glorfindel simply looks at him, and Erestor won’t press his luck and ask again, but hopes the guardian’s considering it. If there is much more inside, ancient secrets or magic runes, he can’t imagine being allowed forward. But if it’s only more of the world he knows, he might have a chance. It helps that Glorfindel looks pleasant enough, is even growing a subtle smile. Then Glorfindel muses, “Would you permit me to walk with you as you drew, Erestor the Cartographer?”

“Of course.” Erestor even bows his head respectfully; it isn’t his territory and wouldn’t be surprised to have a guard. 

“Good. You are quite lovely to look at, and I think I should enjoy your company.”

Erestor straightens out. Glorfindel is grinning wide now, and he suddenly seems less ethereal, more _hungry_. Not yet predatory, but enough for Erestor to frown. He has no desire to be lead into some misty ritual or down Mandos’ Halls. Wary and unconvinced, he checks, “Is that the only price you ask?”

“I had thought to exchange your safe passage for a kiss, but I think now you are harder won than that. So I will settle for a place at your side and the hope that your curiosity is piqued by more than just the earth.”

Erestor can feel his cheeks heating. His whole face is heating. A trap indeed. Glorfindel will surely gobble him up as soon as he sleeps, or at least seduce him, and consume his mind, so that he can’t tell another living soul of what he saw. Perhaps he won’t even be allowed to leave; he’ll be sucked into Glorfindel’s arms for an eternity, trapped here to tend to the whims of a surprisingly lustful spirit. 

Relative to his first fears, he can think of worse things. But he shuts down that thought and tells himself he’ll stay on guard, that he won’t be done in by Glorfindel’s charm and wiles. He nods stiffly and seals his fate by breathing, “Agreed.”

“You do believe you will wish to kiss me, then?”

Erestor’s body is on fire in a sickeningly wondrous way. “I meant that I agree to your only term—that you accompany me. After I am finished with my map, I will leave.”

“It is my wish that you will not want to, but you will have time to come to that.” He extends one arm, hand overturned and palm open, waiting. Erestor looks down at it. He feels as though the black butterflies of the northwestern greenwood are trapped inside his chest. 

But he takes Glorfindel’s hand and watches the mist melt into light.


End file.
